The Untold Story
by volta arovet
Summary: There are few stories better left unsaid: those which might bring danger, those which might bring sorrow, and those without any value whatsoever. Franz Boehm's is the latter. Warnings for language and utter lack of merit.


**The Untold Story**  
or  
**"An Immodest Proposal"**  
a Princess Tutu fanfic of absolutely no redeemable value  
by _volta arovet_

Hey there, baby. I couldn't help noticing you noticing me, and I thought it'd be fun if we could _notice_ each other up close. What do you say?

Aw, don't act so cold. I _saw_ you looking at me, don't deny it. There's nothing wrong with...what? _Him?_ Don't _tell_ me you're another one of those damned fangirls who fell for that white-haired freak. You know what they say about dancers. No, no, I'm not implying anything. All I'm saying is that I'd have a better chance with him than you, that's all I'm saying, all right.

No, wait! Don't walk away!

Okay, okay, I was out of line. I shouldn't say bad things about dancers. After all, for a little while _I_ was one of the greatest dancers in the world. No, really! I may not look it, but I danced one of the greatest pas de deux of all time!

After all, _I _am_ Franz Boehm._

Franz Boehm.

From Kinkan Academy?

The drama section?

Oh, that's cold.

And I thought you fangirls knew everything about Mytho, but you don't even remember my fucking name.

Oh, _now_ you look interested. Typical. Just mention albino-boy's name and suddenly the girls get all excited. Fucking typical.

Anyway, now do you remember me? Franz Boehm, performance artist extraordinaire, bearer of one of Mytho's heart shards?

You mean you haven't read all of, _what's-his-name_, Faker's accounts of the whole Princess Tutu thing? Haven't read it myself, (no patience for books, really) but I thought all you fangirls practically carried copies of it everywhere you go.

Oh, look. You _do_ carry a copy of it with you. That's kind of sad, you know. No offense, but really. Damn.

Aaaaaanywaaaay, let's see here. Anteater Girl, Dead Girl, Stalker Girl, Old Dude...what the hell? What the fucking hell?

_Where the hell is my story?_

I can't believe this! He skipped over my story! He fucking skipped over my story! This is un-fucking-believable!

Sorry, sorry, it's just...damn. It's like it never happened, that's all. I mean, it wasn't the _best_ thing that ever happened to me. I don't think _anyone_ was happy to get stuck with one of Snowball's heart pieces, but still...

You make the funniest faces, you know? I can tell you're thinking that having Mytho's heart must be one of the most amazing things in the world. Like, it's so romantic, or some shit like that. Well, it's not. It's fucking not. It _messes you up_, that's what it does. I mean, I almost lost my scholarship because of it, and then where would I be? I'd be another starving performance artist out on the street. Which doesn't sound too bad, now that I think about it, but anyway, I'd prefer to finish up my years here before truly becoming a starving artist...I've gotten off topic, haven't I?

Hell, I almost lost my life because of it. Doesn't that sound fucking romantic?

It does? Romance is fucking messed up, if you ask me.

Okay, you really want to hear the story of Franz Boehm's great dance with Princess Tutu?

Yes, the great _Prince Mytho_ is involved. Damn, fangirl, be a little colder towards me, why don't you?

Here, sit down. You want a drink? Some peanuts? A back massage?

Kidding, kidding!

Okay, okay, here goes nothing.

_Once upon a time, there lived a..._

I can't do this. I know, I know, fairytales are supposed to start like that, but it's so fucking stupid. It's all structured and _lame_, and doesn't go with the modern idea of art. Besides, it wasn't "once upon a time," it was fucking last semester. If I'm going to tell this story, I'm going to tell it _my_ way, and screw all normal conventions.

I was the greatest performance artist of all time.

How's _that_ for an opening? Much better than that "once upon a time" shit.

No, really. I was the greatest. Still am, to tell the truth. You have to see it to believe it, but I can come up with all kinds of crazy shit. I mean, when I perform, you can just watch the audience's metaphoric jaw _drop_. I can make grown men _cry_. I could make a monk under a vow of silence shout "Holy shit!" I can make every woman in the audience...well...let me put it this way. You think _Mytho's_ flexible? Boy's got _nothing_ on me.

So anyway, the end of the semester was coming, and the board of directors said I had to put on a little show to prove my independent study in performance art wasn't a waste of time. The morons. I had created a masterpiece for them, a perfect work of art. It would knock their socks off, pick the socks up, and smack them upside the head with them for a while. I mean, this was _seriously good shit_.

I was all set to go. Everything was perfect. The lighting, the costumes, the props...do you know how hard it was to get someone to loan me a non-sentient goat? I had put some serious effort into the thing. And just as I was about to go on stage, it hit me.

No, not the goat.

This bizarre feeling came over me and told me that I _could not_ go on stage. This feeling, it—I had no clue what it was. I had never felt like this before! I took a step onto the stage, but as soon as the spotlight hit me I froze in terror. My knees started shaking. I ran from the stage. I tore down a side curtain and completely wrapped myself in it, but still I couldn't stop shaking. I was fucking scared shitless, and I didn't even know why.

Yes, I know that other chick was the one lucky enough to get the fear piece. I'm getting to it, don't worry. It's called "dramatic suspense."

So, anyway, the professor just thought it was stage fright or some shit like that, so he said he'd let me perform the next day. Only then, when it was time for me to go, I couldn't even change into my costume. I couldn't face my professor. I didn't want anyone looking at me! I was covered up head-to-toe like a fucking mummy or one of those demons who don't want you to know they're demons (you know what I'm talking about) but I still felt, I don't know, exposed.

So I wandered over to one of the bridges in town, fully intending to jump off. I mean, what good's a performance artist who can't perform? And then this chick shows up in a tutu.

Oh look, you're finally paying attention.

Yeah, yeah, I'll give you three guesses who it was, and the first two don't count.

And I looked at her and she was wearing this _skimpy_ little tutu and she had these long legs that went up to _there,_ and...all I could think about was that it wasn't decent to wear so little. And that's when I _knew_ that I had to jump, because if I don't even have a libido, then what's fucking left?

Then she does this little whirly thing with her hands and asks me to dance. So I'm like, "Why the hell not?" Only I didn't say it like that since suddenly everything's all poetic and shit. And we began to dance.

And it's like the world stops and it's just us. I'm doing these moves I've never even _dreamed_ of, and it's all amazing and fucking bizarre and beautiful, like it's pure emotion. That's what I've always been trying to capture in my art: pure emotion. And _bam_, it's there. We're it. And it's amazing.

So she asks me why I'm all depressed and shit, and I tell her, only we use more of those pretty words instead of talking like normal people. And, get this, while we're dancing she's _undressing me._ I shit you not. Of course, I had been all covered up in a couple of layers, hat, coat, gloves, shit like that, so she only got me down to my shirt and pants, and all the time she's telling me that I don't have to be ashamed of myself anymore.

Then she put her hands on my chest, and I felt...you want to know what it feels like to have a heart shard removed? I mean, really, without all that poetic shit? Okay, you know that tingly feeling you get when you know you have to piss, but it's not an emergency yet? Just sort of like an early warning? Right. It felt just like that, only in my heart.

Okay, okay, you want me to get to Mytho in this story? (Cold, fangirl, coooold) Well, that's when he showed up. Only he was all red and glowy and shit, and wearing tights and puffed sleeves and this really fruity tunic...remember what I said before about dancers? Riiiiight.

And then behind the glowy Mytho was the real Mytho, and he was wearing this _little_ nightshirt and nothing else. No shit, he was showing more leg than Tutu. Remember what I said...riiiight.

So I'm on my knees on the ground, trying to catch my breath—because, really, getting a piece of your heart removed takes a lot out of a guy—and the glowy Mytho was tugging on his tunic, trying to make it cover more, and he turned to Princess Tutu and spoke. Let's see if I can do this right. ::ahem::

"I am the feeling of Modesty."

Then he disappeared into a little red stone, which Tutu pushed into the other Mytho's heart. Which isn't as gross-looking as you'd think.

I heard a noise then. It was like a thousand fangirls cried out at once, and then were silenced.

By then I was feeling fucking good, like I was my normal, exhibitionist self again. Mytho, on the other hand, had turned as red as his glowy other self. He was trying to cover himself with his hands, yelling at Tutu to look away, and wishing loudly for some pants.

So I gave him mine and ran off yelling, "Free! Free at last!"

That's about the end of my story. Bleach Boy got a piece of his heart, and I put on a brilliant performance the third time around (once I got out of jail, damn public indecency laws) and got to keep my scholarship, so everything worked out okay.

So, pretty fucking amazing story, huh? Damn Faker, skipping over it. If he didn't have that scary-ass sword, I'd give him a piece of my mind. Damn straight. What do you think?

No, you don't have to get up, I—what are you—No! I—

Ow.

Guess I should've seen that coming.

Fine. Good riddance, you fucking ingrate!

Fucking cold fangirls.


End file.
